


The Vigil

by arts_and_letters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Missing Scene, and a little sad, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes spends the night in the hospital watching over his younger brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Update: As of 2/22/15, this story now has a Spanish translation by Blackie-Noir over at fanfiction.net! Check it out: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11066522/1/El-Vigilante
> 
> This is a short little missing scene, set right after Mary shoots Sherlock. {Spoilers for series 3]

Mycroft Holmes had just arrived at the hospital. He was standing outside of his brother's room, preparing to go inside, when one of the nurses emerged. 

“Nurse,” Mycroft glanced at the name tag on her uniform, "Trenton. What’s his prognosis?”  
  
“Are you family, because—”

“Mycroft Holmes, his brother and emergency contact.”  
  
She took a moment to glance through the chart to verify the information. Satisfied, she replied—  
  
“It was touch and go at first, but now that he’s through the worst of it, he should make a full recovery.”  
  
Mycroft let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding.  
  
“Good, that’s good.” 

The nurse hesitated for a moment, before adding, “Sir, someone will probably be by once he’s awake—it’s protocol, with gunshot victims—”

“Yes, of course. Here’s my card. Have them phone me directly.” 

Mycroft Holmes has many cards, but he chose to give her the one he uses when he wants to command the maximum amount of respect and compliance.  
  
“Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ll let the staff know.”  
  
She followed up with, “Will you be staying, sir?"  
  
“How long until he regains consciousness?”  
  
“It depends, but he’ll likely sleep through the night at this point.”  
  
“I’ll stay for awhile longer, in that case.”  
  
She smiled at him, warmly. “It’s always good to have family close by. I’ll be his on-call nurse for tonight, if you need anything.”  
  
“Thank you, Nurse Trenton.”  
  
With a quick nod and a small smile, she left the room.

Mycroft stood for a moment, unsure of himself.

How had all of this happened so quickly?

He suddenly felt every one of his 42 years. Wearily, he lowered himself into the chair beside Sherlock’s hospital bed.  
  
His brother looked peaceful and so young sleeping like this. Oh, how he had hoped their hospital days were behind him once Sherlock sobered up those many years ago. But now, after everything— 

Well, no point in dwelling on that. 

Mycroft was interrupted in his musings when, without warning, Sherlock’s features twisted in pain. 

“M-mary—”

Damn, that woman.  
  
Mycroft already knew, of course, how they had come to be in this position. Magnussen had alerted him to the situation shortly after it occurred. He was waiting, though, to get further information from Sherlock and from his other contacts before taking further action. He had already taken proper security precautions, of course.    
  
Mycroft started to get up, to call the nurse in, but then Sherlock’s eyes opened, took a deep, gasping breath—and said, hoarsely—  
  
“Myke?” 

Usually Mycroft would have bristled at the use of that accursed nickname, but he paid no heed to it now. Instead, he made his way to his brother’s side, as Sherlock, for his part, reached out towards him—what for, he couldn’t say. 

Without even thinking, Mycroft took his brother’s hand and said, “Yes, it’s me, Sherlock.”  
  
“I don’t—what happened?”  
  
“You don’t remember?”  
  
“Remember what?” 

Sherlock tried to sit up and instantly regretted it.  
  
“Don’t move, Sherlock. You’ve just had surgery. Lie back down—I’ll get the nurse.”  
  
“No—don’t." Sherlock swallowed, before adding, "Stay.”

Mycroft paused for a moment—torn—but in the end, he nodded his head, and sat back down in the chair beside the bed. 

Sherlock grimaced once again and asked, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, “Morphine?”  
  
Ah, yes. Back to this again. But what other choice do they have? He couldn’t deny his brother this, not now, when he just had major abdominal surgery to repair the damage brought on by that merciless bullet. 

No, no matter how many terrible associations it brought up—memories of days past—this was not like that. 

Putting aside his own discomfort, Mycroft reached over and pressed the button on the tap, until he saw his brother relax once more.  
  
“Is there anything else I can get for you? I can call the nurse—” 

Sherlock just shook his head, stiffly.  
  
“Would you like some privacy?”

“You probably have important work to do—some country to invade—”

Mycroft shocked both of them by saying, “Nothing more important than you.”

Sherlock looked both surprised and grateful, but he didn’t say anything else in response. 

They sat silently for a few moments, before Sherlock murmured, “I remember.”  
  
“Remember what?”  
  
“How it—this—happened.”  
  
“Ah, yes. I’ve been apprised of the situation.”  
  
“Don’t do anything to her—not yet.”  
  
“We can talk about this later, Sherlock. You’re safe for now.”  
  
“You won’t go after her?” 

“I am keeping an eye on her, but for now, I will leave Mary Watson to remain with the free, although it’s more than she deserves.”  
  
“She’s John’s wife.”  
  
“And you are his friend.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  
  
“No, but—well, why don’t we leave this for now. There will be ample time to discuss this when you have recovered. Perhaps you should try to get some rest.”

“I—I don’t think I can.”  
  
Sherlock sounded so vulnerable, in that moment—Mycroft felt a surge of anger and protectiveness run through him. But he covered it up. Sherlock, Sherlock is what matters now.                                                                                

“What if I told you a story?” 

Sherlock replied, wryly, “The East Wind, again?”  
  
“No, I think not. I could recite the Iliad for you—in English or Greek, whichever you prefer.”  
  
“Now that would put me to sleep.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head firmly.

Mycroft tried, again, “How about a pirate story? One of the tales I used to tell you when you were a boy?”  
  
“Yes—that would be,” Sherlock swallowed, “good.” 

Mycroft nodded, and he began—  
  
“There once was a pirate named Redbeard, and for many years, he ruled the sea with an iron fist.”  
  
It didn’t take long for Sherlock to close his eyes, but Mycroft continued, even after he saw Sherlock drift into sleep.

It was only when the nurse entered the room some time later that Mycroft paused. 

He was grateful that the nurse didn’t remark on any of it—no _how sweet_ or _isn’t that nice._

Instead, she said, “I just wanted to check on his vitals. I won’t wake him.”  
  
Mycroft nodded. “He did wake up, briefly. He seemed lucid.”  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
She paused, for a moment, before saying,“He probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow. It’s typical when they first come out of anesthesia—”  
  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
Mycroft felt something stir in his chest, but he didn’t examine it closely enough to determine whether it was relief or disappointment. 

Instead he said, brusquely, “Keep me apprised of his condition.”  
  
“Are you leaving?”  
  
“Yes, pressing business to attend to.”  
  
“Oh, okay—”

“There’s a man who will be stopping by—John Watson. He’s a close friend of Sherlock’s and a doctor. Please share any updates about my brother’s conditions with Dr. Watson as well.”  
  
“Certainly, I’ll make a note of it in his chart.”  
  
“I appreciate that.” 

Mycroft looked back at his brother one more time, said to the nurse, “Good day."

And then he walked out of the room, left the hospital, and returned to the office, where he would spend the rest of the night and the following day buried in paperwork, trying desperately to forget that night’s lonely vigil. 

When Sherlock came to a few hours later, he remembered every moment of the shooting but none of the events after. As far as he knew, the first bedside visitor he had was John, and later Janine—and, in a fevered dream, Mary.

And when John asked, “Has Mycroft been by to see you?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head and said, “Too busy, I’m sure.”

He didn’t bother to consider why his brother never came by, and it would never have occurred to him to wonder why his dreams were filled with tales of pirates and adventures at sea, and that one pirate in particular—Redbeard. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and if you have moment, I’d love to hear what you thought of this story!
> 
> P.S. For anyone who has been following the Road to Hell, I’m close to posting the first chapter to the follow up story, the Descent, and I’ve got a lot of the other chapters mapped out and started. There will be lots of Sherlock and Mycroft bantering, bickering, and bonding, so stay tuned!


End file.
